winter’s mat

stared black spots blurry
as lazy back row leaves
cascade to knees
mid rush-

wonderin’ how mighty oak
knows to let go-

while i still roll these
ulcers ‘tween ice
fingers
.

presumed it’s a tree’s own needs
that steer leaves’
control,

when there’s fainting
possibility that leaves offer
their humility

as welcome, warmed
for whisper’s snow.